Chuck by Sarai Nunez

CHUCK D C HAR DC ORE ISSUE $3.50 USA $4.50 CANADA PRINTED # EIGHTY ONE 0 T H E B A DISCHORD REVOLUTION AND AN IAN

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INTERVIEW

IN USA NOVEMBER 2-5 N S SUMMER WITH MACKAYE

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CH UCK

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THe hardcore issue

the bad brains dischord

scene pics

revolution summer and an interview with ian mackaye

H.R .

D R. K N Ow Darryl Jenife r Earl

Hud s on

â&#x20AC;&#x153;They were the first band influenced by punk rock, taking it m uch further musically, much faster, much more aggressiv eâ&#x20AC;? 3

-Rick Rubin

ention the name "Bad Brains" to anyone today and you will likely get an overwhelmingly positive response. Considered by some to be the "holy grail" of punk rock, Bad Brains are simply one of the most important and influential American bands to date. Like all great bands, light bulbs go off and charisma enters a room just by the band merely standing in it. The Bad Brains, go one step further and supply the electricity to charisma. Sometimes reactionary, but always volatile, they are one of the definitive punk groups. Known for their over-thetop live performances, the band melded punk and reggae into an innovative style that has yet to be copied. Their impact can be felt in many musical circles and the Brains have impacted virtually every punk band working the airwaves.

bad brains Formed by guitarist Dr. Know, vocalist H.R., bassist Darryl Jenifer and drummer Earl Hudson in the late 70s, Bad Brains are influenced by reggae and pure punk rage. At the time, these two influences were surfacing in U.K. punk bands, but the Bad Brains took it a step further and crossed the genres to bring a manic energy never seen before. They managed to maintain an intensity and a sense of fury while switching gears from punk to reggae to punk. Darryl and Dr. Know bring some of the most brutal and timeless musical jousts, and their interplay with Hudson drives the Brains' energy and intensity. Vocalist H.R's virtuosity continues unchallenged today. His dub-influenced delivery is sometimes majestic, sometimes bizarre, sometimes brutal, but always compelling-- H.R. is an innovative singer ahead of his time. heir debut 7 single, Pay to Cum, became an underground hit and their debut LP, simply called Bad Brains is considered by many to be the "holy grail" of punk and hardcore.

This self-titled debut album created a firestorm and put the Brains on the map -- It was a sound unheard of that also captured their live reputation. The band quickly became one of the most popular punk bands on the East Coast, particularly in their hometown of Washington, D.C. Their legendary live performances were often banned in D.C, and their recordings were often difficult to find, helping forge an even bigger underground following. The band released a few EPs and their first full length album Rock for Light in 1983. The band released I Against I in 1986, which was for Bad Brains what London Calling was for The Clash -the band's more rounded effort that pushed them into legendary status. It had a focused vision, yet retained its diverse influences. Like their self-titled release, I Against I was another masterpiece in the original sense of that term -- a creative juggernaut. The album is blistering, exhilarating, and contains some of the most compelling songs the band ever produced.

Over the few years after, H.R. and Hudson left the band to make reggae albums before oficially departing in 1989. The remaining members were then offered a major-label contract, releasing Rise on Epic Records. The album's sales were modest, despite the absence of H.R. and Earl. Following that release, Maverick Records offered the group a contract, provided that the original lineup reunited. They did so and released God of Love in the mid-1990s The intense relationship of H.R, Hudson and the rest of the band led to H.R. and Hudson's departure again shortly after the album's release, and thus the band split from Maverick. The recordings Bad Brains left behind, as well as their live shows, made the band legendary. Yet few potential fans could actually hear the band due to erratic touring. Their turbulent past and combustible live experience also helped create the Brains' mythology and intensity. Their influence remains undeniable and the early recordings and shows will forever stay legends of punk and hardcore.

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After nearly a year of playing together, the Teen Idles decided to break up. It was late summer 1980 and the only thing left to sort out was what to do with the money in the band fund. All of the money we had earned from our 35 concerts went into a cigar box in my room, and we had managed to save over $600. Instead of splitting it up, the band decided to release a record. It was clear from the beginning that no label would be interested in putting out a Teen Idles record, particularly since we were no longer a band, so we decided to do it ourselves. We turned to our friend Skip Groff, who ran a record shop called Yesterday and Today. He had put out a number of small releases on his own label, Limp Records, and was able to explain the basic mechanics of putting out a record. We came up with a name for our label, started designing the cover, and sent off the tapes to a pressing plant. Finally, in December 1980, the Teen Idles' "Minor Disturbance" E.P. (an eight-song 7") was released. This was Dischord Records #1. In the time it took to put the record together there had been a lot of activity in the young D.C. punk scene. Jeff and I started a new band, Minor Threat, and I moved from playing bass to singing. Henry, the Teen Idles' roadie, started S.O.A. John Stabb had appeared on the scene and was playing with a band that would become Government

Issue. Nathan, the Teen Idles' singer, was working on a new band that would become Youth Brigade. The Untouchables, my brother's band, were still playing, and there were reports of other pockets of young punk rockers forming their own bands. It was decided that if we managed to sell enough of the Teen Idles records to make any of the money back, we would use the cash to put out records by these other bands. I was really inspired by the Dangerhouse Records label, which had released a series of singles by L.A. punk bands, and wanted to try to do something similar with Dischord. Henry was very eager to do a S.O.A. record and ended up paying for the recording and manufacturing of Dischord #2, the "No Policy" E.P. (ten-song 7") which was released in early 1981. With money from both records coming back, we were able to release singles from Minor Threat, Government Issue, and Youth Brigade by the end of the year. In October 1981 we moved into a bungalow-style house in Arlington, Virginia (just across the Potomac River from Washington). We dubbed it Dischord House and moved the label's operations from our bedrooms into a small room off of the kitchen. We didn't really have any idea how long we would last in this location, so we kept the Beecher Street mailing address. We figured that it would stay around for a while. After all it was--and still is--my parents' house. Nathan, who had been working on the label with us, didn't move in, and subsequently became less and less a part of the label. Those of us who lived in Dischord House were all involved with bands. Our basement became a non-stop practice room, and since it was one of the first group houses in our punk clique, it became a major hangout. People were around day and night, and quite often found themselves putting together record sleeves and folding lyric sheets. In January 1982 we released our first 12" album, a compilation called Flex Your Headwhich featured 32 songs by 11 D.C. area bands. By this time there were so many new bands coming onto the scene we were unable to keep up with them. By mid-1983 we had managed to do records with the Faith, Void, Scream, and Marginal Man, as well as release the Minor Threat Out of Step 12" e.p., but we were having serious difficulties with our cash flow. I was working three jobs on top of doing the label and singing in the band, and still we were broke. The problem had to do with getting distributors to pay their bills in some sort of a timely fashion, as well as our inability to get credit at the pressing plants. We always had to pay for our records C.O.D., but the distributors had 90 days (which usually turned into 5 to 6 months) to pay us. We were having a hard time deciding whether to use what little money we had to repress one of the earlier records, or to release something new. It was at this time that we first heard from John Loder. His company, Southern Studios in London, had released the Crass records. Crass were a hugely important British punk band, so we were flattered by his interest in releasing the Minor Threat "Out of Step" 12" in Europe. Because he was able to press records on credit (instead of C.O.D.), and because it was so much cheaper to do so in Europe, we asked him if he thought he could help distribute the record in the U.S. as well. The demand for the record was much higher than we had anticipated, and we didn't have enough money to keep it in print. He agreed to give it a try. This was the beginning of a partnership with Southern that lasts to this day. On top of the financial problems caused by the distribution situation, almost all of the original bands had either broken up or left the label by 1984. We experienced a lull in creative activity as well as a sense of estrangement from the D.C. scene which, in its growth, seemed increasingly more violent and disjointed. Perhaps this situation made the Dischord community become more of a scene within a scene.

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By 1985 a new wave of bands began forming. A political activist group called Positive Force DC formed and began to organize benefits and protests. One of the biggest protests organized by positive force was Revolution summer; more on it next

By Ian Mackaye

The history ofDischord and the scene within a scene that surrounded the label.

WHERE HARDCOR

WAS BOR

Understanding Rites of Spring involves understanding a little about the scene they grew out of. In the early 80s, hardcore, a faster, leaner, angrier splinter of punk rock was flourishing in the US. Washington DC was a hotbed, in large part to Dischord Records, an independent label run by Minor Threat's Ian Mackaye and Jeff Nelson. But as the first-generation hardcore kids themselves were hitting their early 20s, a younger generation was bubbling up, one whose understanding of the music had been shaped by sensationalist news reporting, which largely depicted punks as thugs and vandals. "There was a situation where the shows were becoming increasingly, moronically violent," MacKaye told one interviewer, "and a lot of people were like: 'fuck it, I'll drop out, I don't want to be a part of this any more.'" Rites of Spring offered a new way. Formed by members of the Dischord inner circle (Guy Picciotto, Michael Fellows and Brendan Canty had played together in Insurrection; Eddie Janney had played guitar in the recently split the Faith) their aim was a break from what came before. A listen to Six Song Demo the group's first ever professional recording, long circulating as a semi-official bootleg but now getting its first ever proper release on Dischord offers a fascinating early glimpse of what this band took from hardcore, and what they left out. The speed, and the passion, remained. But all shred of machismo was excised, replaced by startling melody, stark expressions of vulnerability and lyrics that reached for the existential. "We are all trapped in visions of the mind," sings Picciotto, on Remainder.

HINGTON, DC

Rites of Spring might be the most influential punk group that pretty much no one has ever heard of. Founded in Washington DC in 1984, they released just one self-titled album and one 7in record, played little more than a dozen shows, and split up two years later. But the example they set their conduct, their attitude, and of course their music would be hugely influential. A model, if you will, for how hardcore punk might grow up.

WASHINGTON

RITES OF SPRING

HINGTON DC

Revolution summer

r EV OLUTION

Come 1986, though, Rites of Spring were done. With no strong national touring network in place, playing outside DC was a pipedream. The weight of expectation began to feel like a burden. An EP, All Through a Life, attempted progression, but eventually landed posthumously.

Still, Rites' legacy would endure. The next year, Picciotto and Canty would join Mackaye in a new band, Fugazi, who would carry forward many of the ideas mooted in Revolution Summer into the rock mainstream. The term "emocore", or later "emo" coined to describe Rites' sound, much to their collective chagrin would come to describe a movement of like-minded bands, then become a genre in itself. And then, of course, there is the music, which captures something fleeting and precious. On Six Song Demo, you hear an anger and a passion that is urgent and raw and bright; a reminder of how we can better ourselves, swim against the current, rise above.

l o l o C n o he

an ackay

g n ii ap s rD

c o E r

s d u iN

Di iSSC HOR CH OR D D

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a nd more

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INTErVIEW WITH

Stephen Thompson: There's been a lot of

talk about the impending collapse of the record industry, in light of all the mergers, the growth of the Internet, and what many perceive as the declining quality of the music being put out. Do you sort of feel like, "I told you so"? Ian Mackaye: No. For a lot of my friends who signed to labels, I just feel bad for them. They worked really hard and were trying to make things work for their bands. Everyone has their own deals, their own realities to sort out, so I can't sit in judgement of them on that level. It's certainly not a surprise to me; it's just sort of depressing. Joe [Lally] and I were walking down the street maybe three or four years ago, and we ran into a friend of ours who we hadn't seen in a while. He's in a band. I asked him, you know, "How's the band?" And he's like, "Oh, we're getting fucked by our label." And he told us the story about how they were under contract but couldn't put anything out, and they couldn't put anything out anywhere else, the usual kind of stuff. So we said goodbye and continued walking, and Joe said, "How depressing is it that, for the next 10 years, we're going to hear that from so many of our friends?" Those exact words: "We're being fucked by our label." It's really depressing. But it's sort of a peripheral thing for me, because I really stayed out of it. The mainstream industry is not something I have any involvement with whatsoever, so I'm just sort of hearing about it. It's sort of like when people complain to me about how their bosses suck at their office jobs. I feel bad for them, but I'm not going to say to them, "Ha ha, I told you not to go work for an office." They made their own decisions. It's not always a bad story: Sometimes things work out. It's just a little more hit-ormiss, and from my point of view, I was never really interested in even being a part of the record industry. I'm still not interested in it, and I think that confounds people, because in some ways my ambitions are so eccentric. I don't have an ambition; for me, the idea is to document something. There was music that was important to me, and there were people who were important to me, and there was a community that was important to me, so I kind of felt like that was what I was doing: documenting that. And the fact that other people were interested enough to help me realize it is amazing. I never, ever had it in my mind that I wanted to be in the record industry, because I still contend that the record industry is an insidious affair. It's

IAN MACKAYE this terrible collision between art and commerce, and it will always be that way. It has to be, because the people who run labels... No matter how on-time they were in the beginning --no matter how much they love music-- at some point, if you just turn a label into its own entity, its sole purpose is to profit. And once that is established, you know that people are going to be mistreated, ideas are going to be mistreated, and the art is going to be mistreated. It has to be. But I also think a lot of people misunderstand me: They think I'm like, with major labels or major distributors... I'm psyched for people when they work hard and are successful. I think what most people don't understand about my situation is that we worked hard in creating an infrastructure that can distribute our music, and within it,

There was music that was important to me, and there were people who were important to me, and there was a community that was important to me, so I kind of felt like that was what I was doing:

DOCUMENTING THAT we've been very successful. I'm always happy when I hear about people selling records or selling books or selling movies. It makes me proud of them. My principles are not based on hatred; it's not about hating. I don't hate things. It's not that I'm out to smash the state. I'm just interested in building my own damn state. S: Do labels still make offers? IM: No. You've got to figure that A&R people are always, like, 20 years old for the most part, and a lot of them are either fully knowledgeable or they just don't give a fuck about us. And also, I think the labels were sort of excited about us because we were a much more proven quantity than most of the bands they were signing, so I think they felt like we would have been a safe return. There used to be this sort of theory or guess, where people used to say, "You can sell twice as many records on a major label as you do on an independent." So I guess by that reckoning, if someone sold 5,000 on an independent, they could sell 10,000 on a major, no problem. So if we were selling

200,000, they're thinking, "We could sell half a million." I don't really know if that's true, and in fact, I think it's a bit of a legend. For a lot of people who sign, they forget that with independent labels --at least in the underground punk community-- you had longevity. You had a community in which you continue to sell records. So you may not get the big, "Tada!," where you sell 30,000 records in the first week, but you may well sell 40,000 records in a year. All I can tell you is that our best-selling record is probably our first record [13 Songs], and that came out in 1988. And it still sells better than the other records. And the Minor Threat CD [Complete] still sells ridiculous amounts to this day. It's just insane. The problem with the majors is that the records come out, and what sells in the first month is it. By the time your record comes out, people are already working on something else. That's it. They have to, because it's all about hustle. This may well change, but you've got one shot: You put a record out, and if the first single hits, bam, they'll work on it, and if it doesn't, they've got to get on something else. They're not going to sit with it for a while. No time! It's all microwave ovens now, baby. They're not gonna let it simmer. When people talk to me about majors, a lot of the time I tell them to think about it like the lottery: They buy up all these bands like they're at a 7-11 buying up lottery tickets. You only need one to hit, and that pays for all the other ones easily. Most bands end up torn up and on the floor. I can't criticize those bands; in fact, I've always leveled most of my criticism at the mid- to late-'80s independent music labels and distributors, who I feel behaved really poorly. They had a unique situation, and they obviously were going to sell fewer records than majors, but what they had going for them was a different way of doing business, of interacting with people in a way that allows you to give them more attention. And instead of that, I feel like a lot of the large independent labels kind of took the major-label template and just acted like regular labels, except that they weren't selling as many records. You end up thinking in terms of, "Hey, I could be treated like an asshole and sell 10,000 records or I could be treated like an asshole and sell 100,000 records, so I'm gonna sell 100,000 records." It seems totally clear to me, and I just feel like those labels fuckin' blew it.

But even that end of music commerce is outside of our domain, because from the very beginning, this label was created to document music here in Washington, our friends' bands. I've never wavered from that, and there never was a moment when I considered branching out or looking for exciting new acts. If you look to the history of this label, there were years when we put out 20 records and there were years when we put out one. It really depends on the flow of what was happening here. Right now, we have three bands on the label, and who knows? Maybe next year there'll be none. S: How do you maintain the energy? Is there a point at which it just becomes too exhausting? IM: Well... In this interview, you'll hear me use the word "community" about a thou-

be around my friends and family and the people here at Dischord and the bands-all these people who have donated their time and energy and commitment to be a part of this. And I feel like I have a responsibility to represent them in a good way, since they have all entrusted me with that. Keep in mind that I don't see Dischord as something that's happening today; I see Dischord as almost a library. Over the years, all these bands, all these people, all these artists have committed their work to Dischord. So I feel that it's very important to continue to represent them in the best way possible. So I guess that's a good enough reason for energy, and also, I'm a bit of a fighter, and I feel like there's stuff that can be done. A lot of the problems I encounter on a local level --which, to me, are kind of

so many people doing such good work in this world that people never know about, people who are working at youth centers and hospitals and homeless shelters, people who are doing outreach work, people who are doing all kinds of good stuff. These people aren't on any records, but they are lynchpins of this community, people who grew up here, and they've said to me, "Well, Dischord has been a big part of our inspiration." And I'm like, "Well, fuck, man. You guys have been a big part of mine!" S: Do you ever get cynical? IM: I don't think so. I'm not a very cynical person. S: I mean, this is a very cynical view, but it's often sort of expected in society that if you're idealistic, that idealism will fade. You'll...

sand times. But for me, it's always been about a collection of people who were really marginalized for whatever reason. And here in Washington, because it's such a non-industry town, there was no music scene, and because we weren't taken seriously by anybody, we decided that we would have to take each other and our community seriously. And we were able to create something that had an incredibly lasting effect on us. The people I've been running with I've been running with for many, many, many years. I'm not a religious person, and I'm not too interested in being a part of a religion, but I do like having some sort of communal gathering, and having some sense of peoples. It gives me a lot of energy to have the chance to

indicative of the world's problems-- are easily solvable with a little bit of work. It's not so much that I have this incredible amount of energy; it's just that it takes so little energy to fix things that it's a shock that people don't even want to expend that much, because they're so concerned about their own well-being. One of the most disappointing aspects of American society is that people put their own wants, needs, and desires so far above the simplest of problems. They're not interested in dealing with those things. So as a label and an operation and a mission, a lot of good has come of it and I'm not talking about just for me, or for Fugazi, but within the people I count as my friends in my collective group. There are

IM: You'll get real. And again, that's part of the American culture, that sense of, "You're a kid until you grow up. You can play around until you get real. You're an apprentice until you become a professional." There are all these stages, and in music, people don't take you seriously unless you're marketed by a major label. The only stamp of validity has to come from these heinous corporations. And it just seems so strange that people like Sony would have that special stamp in art. "This is an artist, and everyone else is not real because they're not willing to make money." hich is fucking utter bullshit. When I first wanted to play music, I thought I'd never get to, because it seemed like music...

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...and the whole industry surrounding it, was really for professionals only. And therefore, there's no point in me even trying. And punk rock was... I first started hearing about it in 1978 or '79, and it was like I had discovered this portal, this small window into a world that I knew must exist but could never find. And suddenly, here it was: this place where you could explore all sorts of unconventional ideas and approaches. People were just fucking around with good, creative things, and there are bad and good things going on. But it's important that you can have a place where bad things can be done. This world is not just about the good, and any time you're in a place where only good is being offered, you know that something very evil is working somewhere else. To get things right, you have to be able to make mistakes, and you can't be ashamed of that. That kind of thing can't really work in an arena that is completely predicated on profit. If you only have rock clubs, they won't book bands unless they draw, and a lot of new ideas can never be floated because people are never initially attracted to them. With bands like Minor Threat, people are like, "Oh, what a legendary band." But Minor Threat played in front of 20 people! Any band, like The Germs or anybody, that played in the beginning played to nobody. Punk rock was a place where I actually felt like, "Here is an area..." And I don't mean to suggest that it's the only area --it's just one that spoke to me-- but it was an area where you didn't need to make money, because the music was the point, or the community was the point. The first band I was in, The Teen Idles, played for a year in Washington, and because we were white kids from Washington in a punk-rock band, all the anarcho-yippie guys who ran the commune we used to play at called us things like "suburban whiteboy punk-rockers" and "capitalists." God knows why, because every penny we made went into a cigar box. We never split our money up. We saved everything, and that money is the money we used to start the label. For us, it was never about making money; it was always about trying to create our own scene, because we wanted something to do. We were bored as fuck. So, finding this sort of thing made me realize that here is an area that is not about getting real. It never occurred to me that you would have to get real sooner or later. In the early years, there was this sense of always proving to people that they were full of shit. Even in the early days of Fugazi, for the first year, people used to say, "you're going to have to raise your cover prices when you get into bigger rooms." Well, it's 12 years now, and granted, some of our shows are $6, but for

the most part, I think the point is pretty clear that those people were incorrect. And they were wrong because the limits they were drawing were their own. They didn't ever test the waters. So we're in a weird place as a band. People say, "Well, if you ever want to go any farther with the band, you're going to have to sign to a major label." Well, they're wrong! Now, some could say, "Well, you could have sold a million records." Who knows if that's true? But more importantly, who knows if that's important? If you can continue to work, and you can still feel challenged... We're talking about 12 years, and we still practice three or four times a week. We like each other. We still work hard, we're still doing things that are creative and interesting, and apparently somebody else thinks so, too. So maybe people shouldn't always think in terms of escalation; maybe they should think in terms of consistency. S: The flip-side of that is the desire to have people hear your music; the idea that if you were on a major label, you could reach a lot of people. Do you ever feel that way? IM: A lot of people have said to me, "It's criminal that more people don't hear your music." But our position is that our music is available to anybody in the world who wants to hear it. Now, that doesn't necessarily mean that it's easily accessible, but things that are good aren't always easily accessible. I mean, if you want some food, you can walk over to the 7-11 and get some microwave whatever-the-fuck --you can get the food-- but if you want something good, you're going to have to walk a little farther. You might have to walk to a restaurant that actually gives a fuck about what they're feeding you. You could just buy some frozen pizza and stick it in the oven, or you could maybe make your own. It's going to be a hell of a lot better if you make your own pizza. Just because it's more accessible, that doesn't mean it's good, and it's usually quite the opposite. There are certainly good examples of incredibly brilliant, beautiful music that has been made commercially available and sold everywhere. But I would say that, for the most part, quantity certainly does not speak well for quality. And I think that part of what makes us go, part of our heart as a band,

has to do with running things ourselves. Had we given up that part, it would have destroyed us. Of course I'd be happy if a million people bought the record; I'd love that, and it would make me feel even more justified in a lot of ways. I feel like it could happen. The problem is that there is a certain point where there is a cut-off, a chasm you can't get across. When we're playing gigs, we can handle up to about a 2,000-capacity room, as far as expenses are concerned. But after the 2,000, the costs just go insane, and it is impossible for us to play those rooms. Even if we sold them out, at our ticket price we wouldn't be able to pay the janitors. The same thing happens with record sales: I think we have maxed out as far as initial sales --at least, as far as the network we can operate within is concerned-- because the majors hold the lock and key to the really super-widespread stuff. But so what? It doesn't deter us from continuing, and we can still play shows. And who says playing in front of 2,000 people is all that much better than playing in front of 100,000 people? It's a weird thing but, then, it's supposed to be weird. It was always about doing something interesting. We already know the trajectory of bands that have started out, worked hard, created their own scene, signed to a label, gotten huge, and then stopped. We've seen that trajectory in various forms of success many times. But it's not very often that you hear about a band that starts on its own terms and carries it out to the very end. It's more unusual. That's why I sometimes feel a little lonely, because I don't think there are a whole lot of other bands in our position. I don't really know if there In punk rock and rock 'n' roll, I don't really know if there are any bands. There may well be.